


Cards Are the Devil's Game

by TallFlower



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Creepy, Demon Hanzo Shimada, Demons, Fire, Halloween, Haunted Houses, Horror, Hunter Jesse McCree, M/M, Reincarnation, Storms, Tragic Romance, also it's FAR removed from what i normally do, but I'm happy with it, this... isn't particularly happy just so you guys know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-01-20 18:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12439167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TallFlower/pseuds/TallFlower
Summary: "Good Hunter, good hunter... why do you resist?"Sent by Lord Reinhardt himself on a mission to cleanse a haunted mansion on the anniversary of Adlersbrun’s "Endless Night", the hunter known as Jesse McCree sits in wait for the ghost to appear. But as the witching hour commences, he instead encounters a strange, yet powerful new friend, who helps to unlock the secrets of his past and to fully unmask the heroes of his childhood...





	Cards Are the Devil's Game

**Author's Note:**

> Halloween is my favourite holiday and also marks my one year anniversary of getting back into writing. To celebrate I decided to participate in the McHanzo Monster Mash! Horror stories and films have always been a passion of mine, so I thought that I might as well try to write something genuinely scary rather than my usual fun fluff. Just to mix it up. But of course I'm very late because my life decided to be difficult, and this ended up as being rather therapeutic for me personally. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy.....

_“Good hunter, good hunter.”_

_As his eyes opened, he found himself in a place of incredible cleanliness, as uninhabited as a swallow’s nest in the dead of winter. There was no one else, only him. There were no shadows, no falling dust, as though the entire world was made of ceramic. Yet he saw no reflection of tiles or any discernible light source. There were no doors, no windows, only the white stretching away like some infinite expansion of space._

_In that moment, nothing existed save for himself, the whiteness, and the voice._

_“Good hunter, good hunter.”_

_The voice sang as tenderly as a mother would sing to her newborn, trying to lull him to rest._

_Sweat began to pour down his forehead, heart racing within his chest. It pounded in his ribs like a man hammering his way out of a cage. Like a sudden fever had taken hold of his body, he felt himself shiver uncontrollably. Every muscle ached with an unexplained pain, a numbness spreading up his fingers and toes. It crept up slowly along his limbs like a stalking animal, his blood becoming ice as it climbed. His eyes darted wildly, trying to find a way to escape. To somehow see something that would be enough to activate his adrenalin. To run from whatever kept him lying there. To spot someone and be able to call for help, to save him from this nightmare._

_But no one would come. No one was there but him._

_Him, and the voice._

_“Good hunter, poor hunter… why do you resist?”_

_Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement. He snapped his head to the side, lips parting to call for help only to freeze upon seeing what was before him. A few feet away from where he lay, the white seemed to shift like a curtain, revealing a slit of pure darkness. Out from the opening came a large grey form, cloaked in silvery white and horns forming from its head. The shadows seemed to cling to the figure as it stepped out of its realm, like a dozen hands desperately trying to grab hold of it, before going limp and slipping off of its skin as it approached._

_Its pale glowing eyes never left him. Its mouth opened, and its song continued, “Poor hunter, weary hunter, why not rest for me?”_

_As though under a spell, he felt his consciousness waver at the form’s command. The world began to blur, thoughts and images floating aimlessly as though caught in an unstoppable hurricane. He could still feel those eyes — glowing like stars against the cobalt — burn into him, making direct contact as he feebly battled to stay awake._

_With every blink his eyelids grew heavier and heavier. By the time the figure loomed over him, he could feel his vision ebbing._

_“Weary hunter, sweet hunter, why don’t you sleep like the dead,” the creature sang, stooping to its haunches._

_He could feel a hand gently caress his cheek, the touch freezing his skin, the sweat that drenched him seconds before biting into him like ice._

_“Fear nothing, sweet hunter. I will be by your side. Do not fear the path ahead.”_

_He felt the creature’s fingers spreading across his face, the chill following his touch. Carefully it drew its hand down the side, tucking a part of his loose hair behind his ear._

_“My hunter, my only hunter,” it sang, this time so softly and quietly it was a mere whisper. “Remember that everything comes to an end.”_

_The creature leaned forward, pressing its forehead against his. Hot breath washed over his face and as he began to lose the battle of consciousness, his eyelids finally fell closed. As they did, he felt something softly brush over his right eye._

_For a brief second the cold had ceased. The gesture brought momentary warmth in his soul, and deep down in the pit of his stomach. Something about the creature’s actions were… familiar. Made him feel safe. A comfort performed by a loved one._

_In his chest, his heartbeat began to slow, a steadily declining drum in his ears._

_The ending tune was enough to make him let out one long, last breathe before lying down his heavy head in defeat, and retreated into the wallowing blackness that consumed him._

 

xXx

 

The chime of the grandfather clock roused Jesse McCree from his momentary slumber. He let out a sharp gasp as he jolted forward in his chair, panting as the bells rang three times to announce the hour of the night. Jesse’s mind raced for a moment, trying to collect himself. He looked down at his hands, noticing a lit cigar hanging between the fingers of his prosthetic. The ember at the tip still burned, letting him know that he had only succumbed to sleep for a second or two.

Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling, he began to slow down the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He brought the cigar to his lips, hand trembling slightly as he took a pull.

He looked to his left-hand side, gazing out the tall window beside him. Raindrops raced down the glass like a waterfall, distorting the dying gardens that surrounded the mansion to make it look even more hellish and disheveled than it already was. Through the rain, he could vaguely make out lightning crackling through the black clouds that had chosen to arrive that night. Not even the moon’s light could escape the storm, which shrouded the study in almost total darkness.

Jesse leaned back into his soft, cushioned chair, eyes quickly shifting to the other side of the table. Opposite him was another chair. However, rather than being covered with beautifully interwoven red padding, this one was blackened and charred. Even the wood floor bore dark scorch marks around the legs of the chair and mysteriously, these also appeared on the ceiling just above it.

The smell of smoke lingered on it, as if the chair had recently caught fire.

And if the lord of the mansion’s words were to be believed, that was exactly what had happened.

The rest of the study showed no other sign that a fire had gone out of hand. The walls were lined with tall, broad, oaken shelves filled with heavy leather tomes. All of them were coated in a layer of dust — a telling sign that they were used for nothing more than decoration — but all were in otherwise pristine condition. On one of the shelves sat a few burnt herbs he had used as incense the night prior, trying to lure the ghost with its scent, but to no avail.

On the oaken surface of the table sat a golden coin — one of the sixty in total Lord Reinhardt had given him as payment. The rest of his earnings hung snugly from his waist in a pouch, clinking against one another with the smallest of movements.  

After several minutes of staring, Jesse took one last pull from his cigar, smoke curling up from his nostrils like spectral tendrils in the dark. He moved forward to snuff the butt in a fancy crystal ashtray he’d snagged from the dining hall. The lord wouldn’t mind. He was getting rid of a ghost for him, so the least he could do was allow him to enjoy his cigar while lying in wait for his prey. Besides, the place already smelled like crap. It wasn’t like he was making it any worse.

Jesse reached out to take the coin in his gloved hand, absentmindedly toying with it. He placed it on the slick surface of the table, setting it on its side and flicking it with his thumb and index finger.

 _How did you get out?_ he wondered to himself, watching the coin spin like a lady in a ballroom. Around and around it went, glimmering gold in the pale light. It eventually landed on its side, facing heads-up. He let out an irritated sigh and shoved the coin into his one of his coat pockets, mentally filing a note away to remember to put it with the rest later.

As soon as it was away, he dragged his hands down his face. All throughout the night he had sat in anticipation, waiting for the spirit to finally flutter back into existence. Feeling the mansion’s dampness seep deeply into the skeleton that made his frame. He could practically feel the dark bags under his eyes after what felt like years of expectation.

_Still not here._

By this point, Jesse had stayed in Loftus Hall for three nights and three days, the storm being his only companion throughout. Lord Reinhardt, along with his accompanying servants, had all left in a hurry, having received a parchment from a raven telling of trouble once again brewing in his true home of Adlersbrun. Since his departure, the looming storm had finally decided to pounce on the empty home.

Ever since then, Jesse had sat in wait for the apparition Reinhardt claimed to have seen burst into flames in the chair opposite to him. The lord, paranoid and in fear, rambled on about it being a message sent by the Witch of the Wilds, saying that she was returning to seek revenge on him in Loftus Hall, despite the fact that the witch had been slain long ago. The night of McCree’s birth, in fact.

While growing up, his mother would recite the story on the eve of his birthday, just before midnight. Four heroes from all walks of life — the Soldier, the Alchemist, the Gunslinger, and the Archer — defended the castle with every ounce of their strength, slaying Dr. Junkenstein and all his accompanying cohorts and creations. However, only three of the remaining heroes made it out with their lives, and they quickly vanished, never to be seen again. Not even by Lord Reinhardt, who had employed them.

These tales, known as Adlersbrun’s Endless Night, had shaped many childhoods long after the battle had taken place, and the ones that had haunted the lord since. As he grew up, some part of Jesse had always assumed that the legend was nothing more than that, which was why seeing Reinhardt had taken quite the… _readjustment_.

Jesse had not been in the seaside town three days before he’d caught the attention of what he presumed to be a guard. The guard entered the pub, silencing the babble that had been going on. Muscle-bound, with a stoic face, chin-length blonde hair and a long, jagged scar over his blind eye. Without warning, he had grabbed Jesse by the scruff of his collar mid-drink, saying, “A-ha! There you are!” and had unceremoniously dragged him to the carriage that was waiting outside.

Another passenger was waiting within, this one old, saggy skin barely sticking onto bone and with a golden crown atop his head.

It was well known that Reinhardt took the fallen heroes’ deaths personally, feeling as though he had sent them on a suicide mission from the very beginning. Grief ate him alive until the once strong king with his mighty hammer and shield was nothing more than a phantom of what he used to be, hair white as fallen snow. He had retreated to Loftus as an escape, only for his sins to follow him there, as well.

During the carriage ride Jesse was introduced to Reinhardt the Fourth, the “guard” that had found him. But he noted that the lord referred to his son as Junior. In contrast to his father, Junior seemed to fit what Jesse had imagined the lord to have looked like. Strong, undeniably handsome, head held proudly high.

McCree looked out of the carriage as they rode up the lane, toward a dark ominous building that sat on top of the hill. Ivy and ferns grew through the crevices of the old winding stone path, leading directly to the colossal structure. In the distance, one could hear the soft crashing of waves against rock, and the calls of crows.

Together, the three entered through Loftus Hall’s wooden doors and entered a long hall. Arched windows covered each side of the wall, and as Jesse tilted his head up to stare at the chandelier above him, the lord began to explain himself. Apparently, he had heard tales of Jesse as well — about his proficiency and his gifted shot. Some of those stories were parroted back to him (some true, many false) before the lord began to recount his unfortunate time with the apparition. Upon hearing it, Jesse felt a pang of pity for the man he had so often heard about in his youth.

Before he and his son sailed off to their country, Jesse swore an oath to rid the mansion of whatever lingered to its stone walls, earning him a hug from the lord, as well as his overly-generous payment. Behind him, Junior gave him a wide, warm smile. A silent thank you to the hunter. At first, Jesse attempted to decline the money, but the lord had insisted.

“Please, take this for your efforts, young man, please,” he had said, shoving the pouch into his hands and closing them.

There wasn’t any way McCree could have refused him.

Despite his promise, however, Jesse had seen nothing unusual. Suffice to say, this wasn’t how he’d wanted to celebrate his birthday. Outside, the wind continued to howl against the stone walls as it had done since he had arrived, its incoherent cries growing louder and louder as time wore on; a withered soul looking for sanctuary. Banging on the doors and tapping on the windows, begging to come in. For the most part, the mansion stood strong—the wood only groaning from time to time and the glass mildly shaking from the power of Mother Nature’s forces. From what he could see, nothing had been blown away yet.

The incessant noise carried on to seemingly no end. It cried out from dawn to dusk, becoming practically white noise to his ears. Jesse’s mind began to wander off as he looked out the window once more, wondering what he’d tell Lord Reinhardt upon his return. Should he lie for the sake of his sanity? Tell him that he had banished the ghost? Or speak the truth? Was there truly a presence haunting Loftus Hall, or was it only the shadows playing tricks on an elder’s eyes? The fire could have been started by ash from a cigar getting onto the cushioning, or anything else. He contemplated his options, watching as the storm relentlessly tested the mansion’s strength. But his mind didn’t travel far, for a voice from behind snapped him back to attention.

“A good day for the ducks.”

Jesse turned his head, fingers digging into the armrests of his chair as he caught sight of the man standing in the doorframe. His heartbeat sped to a brisk canter. The man’s hair, inky and slicked back by rain, was tied up in a tidy ponytail and held in place by a long, golden ribbon. His neatly-trimmed beard framed his strong jaw to excellent effect, and the streaks of grey at his temples made him appear slightly older — and _much_ more dignified — than Jesse.

The man kept his brown eyes trained on him as he stepped into the room, his heeled boots leaving a faint trail of mud on the wood floor. There was a self-assured intensity to his gaze. One only a curious nobleman would have. He gave a small, cordial smile as he approached, his eyes creasing ever so slightly as he did so. His lips, like the rest of him, were glistening from the dousing he had clearly taken in getting to the mansion.

Jesse couldn’t help but shift in his seat. He straightened up out of his slouch, feeling the sudden need to look a little more presentable. He reminded himself that gawking at a man’s mouth was impolite, and quickly looked away.

Everything about the stranger screamed aristocrat, from the lofty way he held his head to his tailor-made clothing and shoes. Around his broad shoulders he wore a crisp, white waistcoat and shirtsleeves, a cravat tucked neatly into the dip of his sternum. He carried a much longer coat, slung over one arm like a drenched towel, dripping rivulets of water that mixed in with the dirt on the floor. Jesse raised his prosthetic hand to push the brim of his hat back from his brow.

“It’s nice for them. Not so much for us,” he drawled.

The stranger let out a soft chuckle. “That is true, I suppose.” He walked toward the empty chair before Jesse, lying his coat neatly over the back. He remained facing away from hunter. “Shall I assume that Lord Reinhardt is not at home? I haven’t seen anyone else since I’ve arrived.”

Jesse was silent for a moment. He found his eyes straying down the stranger’s back, noticing the curve of his body as it narrowed about his hips, then down his fine, graceful legs.

“You assume correctly,” he replied at last, snapping out of his trance as the stranger turned to face him. “Lord Reinhardt left with his servants before the storm arrived. Took a ship back to Adlersbrun. Said he had business to attend back at his castle.”

The stranger frowned, his lips hardening into a straight line. “And why do I find you in his home? Are you some sort of thief?”

“I’m no thief,” Jesse said. “I’m a guest.”

“A guest…” the man mused, eyes shifting down to the hunter’s waist, where the silver handle of his revolver jutted out from its leather holster.

McCree followed his gaze, patting the handle with his hand. “Yeah. A guest.”

Pushing out from the table, the hunter rose to his feet, drawing himself to his full height. His palm remained trained on his holster. He gave a wolfish grin to the stranger, trying to show all would be well, so long as things remain civil. “And as his guest I feel I should be the one askin’ you questions. Given that Lord Reinhardt told me I would be the only visitor until his return.”

The man’s dark eyebrows knitted together.

“If you are implying that I am the thief, then you are mistaken,” he said, fingers dipping into his front pocket to reveal a piece of paper he’d had tucked inside. A seal was placed in the letter’s centre. Candle wax as red as a rose. The crest was of a boar’s head, tusks and snout reaching up to the sky, where a crown hovered above its snout. He shoved it back down out of sight. “I was sent to give a letter to Lord Reinhardt, and to him alone.”

The two stood knee-deep in silence for a moment. Outside, thunder rumbled and a bolt of lightning cracked the midnight blue sky into two, bathing the study in a sudden white light as the men stared each other down.

Now it was the stranger’s turn to study Jesse. He inspected him from the top his hat to his tips of boots, as if trying to fathom who exactly was standing before him. Something flashed beneath the surface of the hard expression. Jesse hurriedly tried to comprehend the sudden shift, but it was too late. The emotion disappeared before it could be properly identified it, as if Jesse had been reaching desperately for an escaping kite, the string dangling so tantalizingly close, before the wind pushed it away. Lost forever.

The stranger tilted his head to the side. “You are no regular guest. You are a hunter.”

A statement rather than a question.

“Was it my roguish good looks and grizzled charms that gave me away?” McCree asked, with a smile spreading across his face.

He saw no use in hiding his identity at this point. This man was clearly not the ghost he had been anticipating all night. The temperature had not changed since the man’s arrival, there was no trace of translucency around his frame, no unearthly shimmer, or anything of the sort. The stranger was clearly made of flesh and blood. Of strong muscle and bone. All beautifully wrapped up to create one whole, living person. The first one he had seen in the days since Lord Reinhardt had left him with his mission and the storm had begun.

Admittedly, part of Jesse was giddy at the notion that he finally had some sort of company. An opportunity to hear any sound that wasn’t the old home moaning against the rage of the stormy night. And what a lovely sound it was. The man’s voice was of a low timbre, yet soft and gentle. Each word was carefully formulated and chosen before spoken aloud. Something about it was familiar. Comforting. Like an old friend.

No, Jesse believed that this man was no threat to him or his work. For now. He crossed his arm over his chest, leaning back onto the table as he waited for the stranger’s reply.

He didn’t have to wait long, for after the stranger rolled his eyes to the heavens and let out an exasperated sigh, he raised a hand and indicated to his belt.

“The hunter’s crest was what gave you away,” he said, causing Jesse to look down at the silver insignia that decorated his waist.

The skull of the hunters guild gleamed up at him, its fangs glinting despite the study’s darkness, along with the silver bullet-cases he kept on hand at all times. All those like him wore the crest; a sign of hope to those haunted by the evils of Hell itself.

Jesse looked back up, mouth parted and ready to shoot back some sort of witty remark, only to pause, seeing that the stranger was moving away from him toward one of the many bookcases that lined the room.

“I have met one of your kind before,” he crooned, reaching out his hand towards the row of books, the tips of his fingers gently gliding down on of the leather spines.

For some unexplained reason, the action sent a shiver racing down along McCree’s back, as though he was being stroked that way, too. The sensation stopped just as the stranger froze, the herbs catching his eye. He reached out to their burned remains, taking a quick whiff before placing it back where he had found them.

“It was many years ago. He told me stories of his travels and the monsters he had faced. From what he described to me, it is a heroic line of work.”

Jesse found himself shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know about that.”

The stranger turned his head, raising an eyebrow at Jesse over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

The stranger’s tone wasn’t one of anger. Once again, his emotions seemed hidden from Jesse. Indescribable and hard to exactly pinpoint. He merely continued to watch Jesse from where he stood, as still as a statue. In that moment, Jesse felt as if he were being judged by one of the gods.

“I mean, y’know,” he mumbled, feeling heat rise up through his neck. “There’s lots of other jobs that are just as dangerous and require just as much bravery as mine. Guards, doctors… such like.”

For a moment the stranger said nothing. In that silence, Jesse began to think that he had somehow insulted him. But before that thought could begin to take root, the stranger turned on his heel once more. This time he stepped forward, stopping only when their chests were inches apart. Jesse’s nostrils were greeted by the sweet aroma of some sort of flower that crushed the smell of smoke that clung to the room, as though he was bathed in the heady perfume. He could feel the stranger’s breath warming his skin. By now, his face must have been as red as a tomato.

“Those jobs you mentioned deal with only people,” the stranger murmured, eyes narrowing. “How could there be any comparison?”

“People can be dangerous too.” Initially Jesse’s voice was soft. Weak, as though it was ready to break. He let out a stifled cough even though his throat didn’t need clearing, fighting the urge to tug at his collar. “Paranormal creatures just want to eat most of the time. They’re not motivated by malice or greed or any of that. All you gotta worry about are the claws and the teeth when they’re concerned. With regular old humans… you can’t predict what they’re going to do. Or what they want. Or how they’re going to try get it.” He nodded quickly over to the burnt chair. “Our ghostly friend here, for example. All they want is to go to the other plane and live out their days there. But they’re stuck, so they terrorize people until they—”

“—get what they want,” the stranger finished, following his gaze. “Like a child throwing a tantrum.” He jabbed a thumb back at the shelves, directly at the herbs. “That is sweetgrass, is it not? Does that mean that cleansing the room was successful?”

“A cleansing can’t work if there isn’t a ghost to work _on_ ,” Jesse said. “The place is clean, I swear to you. I’ve performed just about every chant and sigil in the book, and no spiritual activity has happened for days.”

“Was Reinhardt lying to you?”

“Not lying, no. I don’t think he’s the type to lie. Delusional or confused? Possibly. It’s happened before and he won’t be the last case I have. He switches from living in one enormous castle to a large mansion, practically always on his own. The ol’ brain plays tricks on the lonely.”

“How do you explain the chair?”

“As I said, the mind can be a trickster. He could have lit it by accident and forgot about it the second it went up.”

“How interesting,” the stranger said, pondering. “You believe that people are unpredictable, yet you seem to trust this one quite a bit.”

“We wouldn’t get far if we didn’t trust a few of them,” Jesse smirked. “Your friend has taught you well if you can deduce all of that. Real good detective work.”

The stranger continued to stand in place, arms folded over one another. Water still dripped onto the floor from his hair and his aquiline nose, like the faucet of a tap. A dark shadow crossed his face, and his eyes diverted to the floor.

“Thank you. I suppose he did.”

 _Man must be perished after his traveling_ , Jesse realised, taking a quick glance at the coat the stranger had folded and left on the chair. It was drenched. He pulled his arm out of his own coat, shrugging it off.

“Here,” he said, draping the leather over the stranger’s shoulders.

The stranger took it, holding onto its lapel with a free hand as he shivered. Jesse gestured to the closest available seat—the charred one. Without a pause or argument, the stranger sat himself down on the burned cushions.

Jesse took the chair opposite him. “You mentioned your hunter pal in the past tense. You two not friends anymore?”

“Technically, we are not.” The stranger’s grip on his coat grew tighter, eyes still trained to the floor. “He is dead.”

“Oh.”

Shame washed over Jesse. _You just had to be a snoop, didn’t you_? he thought to himself, desperately searching for way to change the subject. One came to him, and he started to blabber like the idiot he felt he was.

“You’ve yet to mention your name. Granted, neither have I — name’s Jesse, Jesse McCree, a hunter just like you guessed, nice to meet you — but I thought I should ask. And also may I inquire what needs Reinhardt’s attention? Seems important. No one would dare travel in such a storm over something trivial.” His face fell into a frown. “Actually now that I think of it, I thought I locked the front doors. How did you—”

“It is Hanzo.”

The stranger’s voice froze McCree. He watched, mouth agape as the stranger’s soft lips stretched into a smile that didn’t quite reach his dark eyes. They were lit with something… a sadness.  A forced expression to show that the remembrance of his friend had not affected him.

Slowly, the stranger leaned forward, taking hold of McCree’s prosthetic hand, lifting his metallic fingers towards those perfect lips. And as he planted a delicate kiss — one that was as light as a feather — on the hand, Jesse could swear his heart skipped a beat.

As he drew away, the stranger continued to smile.

“My name is Hanzo Shimada,” he repeated, a McCree’s hand slithered back to his side of the table. “It is an honour to meet you, Jesse, Jesse McCree, a hunter just like I guessed.”

Jesse sank further into his seat, speechless. You’d swear he’d have straight-up palmed his trousers by how he gawked at Hanzo. If his face wasn’t red up to that point, it certainly was now.

He eventually let out a weak laugh, feeling as though he had downed a bottle of whisky. In a way, it was. Every word the stranger, Hanzo Shimada ( _even his name was pretty, may the gods have mercy on my soul_ ) spoke affected Jesse like he’d taken a drink. The alcoholic feeling warmed his chest and the pit of his stomach, eventually making its way to his very soul. It made the jokes funnier, made the world seem less damp and dark and filled with the eldritch horrors he had grown used to. Made the storm seem like a distant memory. He was sure that if he bothered to stand, his knees would wobble like a newborn calf.

As the wind carried on with its mighty roar, his mind began to drift as it had done before Hanzo’s arrival. All of his questions had evaporated as suddenly as they had arisen in his mind, replaced by nothing but adoration for the man sitting before him. All that mattered was that Hanzo was there and that they were together. And that Hanzo was going to talk and talk for all eternity, so that Jesse would never be sober ever again.

“I doubt we will be able to rest with all of this going on,” Hanzo said, nodding to the widow.

Lightning came, a brilliant shock of white in the graphite sky, forking silently to the unsuspecting ground. The thunderous boom always calling its warning too late. An echo of the power that shook the valley and the mansion. Hanzo seemed unfazed by the crack. He dug in his trousers pocket instead, fished out whatever he was searching for, and laid it on the table. Jesse looked at it. A white deck held together with a red ribbon sat on the table between the two of them.

Hanzo tugged the ribbon until if fell away, casting it aside. “Are you up for a little game?”

Jesse’s interest was piqued. Of course he was going to accept. It would give him ample opportunity to try and earn himself another smile. This time genuine. He sat up, drumming his hands on the table.

“Sure thing, pumpkin,” he drawled, smirking and giving a quick wink. “Lay it on me.”

Hanzo once again shook his head, as though to say _“I should have known.”_ He began to shuffle the cards, sliding them between each other effortlessly; a clear virtuoso of card-games.

“So, after finally telling you my name, you choose instead to call me ‘pumpkin’?” he said, letting out a “ _tsk-tsk_.”

“Don’t worry, I only call the cute ones that.”

“I am simply humbled.”

“Hey, now. You were the one who said it was an honour to meet me.”

“I suppose I was,” Hanzo said, that false smile still clinging onto his features. “And I pride myself in being a man of my word…” His sentence drifted away.

Finishing his rearrangement of the cards,  he knocked the deck onto the table, lining up the cards back in place before tossing four over to McCree’s side and laying five on his own.

Jesse scooped up his pile, counting them before holding them in the air as proof.

“I’m one short,” he told Hanzo, waving the cards.

Hanzo paused, glancing up at his cards, then wordlessly flung a spare from the deck over to Jesse. Unlike the rest, there was too much power in the throw this time. The card slid across the slick surface like a rock skimming over water, skating off of the edge and landing on the floorboards. Groaning out of pure laziness, Jesse pushed out his chair, setting down his cards as he bent over to grab the errant one. The eight of hearts stared up at the ceiling, but in a pattern Jesse had never seen before. Instead of having four hearts down either side, they were arranged in a circle, white arrows separating each one. A hog’s face was in its centre with a crown above its snout.

Just like the seal on the letter.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hanzo crossing his legs, the cuff of his trousers lifting ever so slightly. Every muscle in Jesse’s body froze solid, the wash of fear eroding the pure adoration that had been there seconds earlier. It was as though a spell had been shattered. As if Jesse had been sailing blindly in fog and only now, just before collision, did he see the approaching rocks.

His stomach began to twist as numbness crawled up his legs, down his arms, slowly consuming his body. His chest tightened with panic, as if his muscles were trying to stop the flow of air to his lungs. As if to say, _“It’d be better to die now than later.”_ His breathing spiked, becoming hitched and shallow, his ribs feeling heavier with each passing second. Jesse desperately wanted to reach, to run or scream or cry, to do something. But he was paralyzed. Rooted to the spot, no matter how hard he willed himself to move.

Jesse did not know what had compelled him to look over at Hanzo’s legs in the first place. Maybe his instincts had kicked in. Maybe he had noticed something unusual, or maybe he was curious about what those slender legs actually looked like. Whatever the reason, as soon as his eyes fell on them, he was immediately thankful he had. In that moment, Jesse realised exactly who Hanzo Shimada was. Or, to be more precise, _what_ he was.

His ankles, rather than being the same sallow colour as his face, were completely covered in thick, black fur; a shiny hoof peaking over the brim of his polished shoe.

Jesse’s mind went blank with terror as he heard Hanzo sing in a familiarly soothing tone, “ _Good hunter, good hunter, why don’t you sit up for me?_ ”

Jesse’s body shifted according to Hanzo’s command. His breathing became even more erratic as he straightened up, the muscles in his legs twitching and writhing, begging to flee, yet unable to fight the cold that had entered his blood. He was now a mere puppet being controlled by strings, Hanzo’s song conducting his movements against any will of his own.

Jesse’s head turned, eyes wide, as he saw what now sat before him. No longer was it a man.

He watched in terror as Hanzo’s skin began to crack, black lines snaking all around his nose and forehead, crumbling away in pieces, as though it were made with fine pottery. The skin all down his neck and over his Adam’s apple was also fractured. As he lifted his hand toward Jesse, he saw that the hand was the same.

A snake shedding its skin to unvail a poisonous pattern beneath.

“Why do you look so frightened, good hunter?” Hanzo asked, voice no longer singing, a finger curling around Jesse’s ear, pushing back a strand of long hair from his face.

Moments before, the action would have set Jesse’s heart fluttering, but now cold sweat gathered on his brow. A large chunk fell away from Hanzo’s cheek, crashing to the floor to reveal grey flesh beneath, with a swirling, blood-red pattern just above the bone.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Hanzo let out a deep chuckle at his own joke, causing more of his ceramic mask to break, unveiling more of his true face. The curling red designs crawled along his temple, where two horns began to grow. Hanzo’s once brown, sharp irises paled, blending in with the white of his eyes until they were no more.

“Normally, I would finish the game before revealing myself. However, since you already know, there is no point wasting my time any further…”

With his outstretched hand, he redirected his finger to McCree’s waist. The pouch holding the gold from Lord Reinhardt came undone, rising into the air and plopping down on the table between the deck of cards and crystal ashtray with a clink.

“Wilhelm never changes,” Hanzo sighed, shaking his head at the sight of the pouch. He passed his hand over the items and, like that, they disappeared. Like they never existed in the first place. “Paying off the lamb just before it goes to the slaughter.”

_Slaughter._

A chill raced down Jesse’s spine as the penny dropped. The demon never intended to meet the lord. Not for one second. There was no spirit haunting the mansion as Reinhardt had claimed. There was no dire emergency in Adlersbrun, and the Witch was most certainly still dead. No. It was a trap. One that Jesse had fallen right into. And he was going to pay the price for not understanding it sooner.

Jesse’s legs continued to jerk, fighting in vain against the invisible chains that kept him in his seat; stopped him from whirling around and sprinting down the damp, shadowed corridor and down the stairs. His clenched jaw stopped him screaming at the demon who held him captive.

 _By the gods I’m dead_ , he thought, watching Hanzo reach into his front pocket, producing the letter that was supposedly meant for Reinhardt (a lie, for sure). As he did, his suit also transformed, lit up with blue flame. The white fabric of his shirt burned away — as did Jesse’s coat — revealing an equally white kyudo-gi underneath. All around his left pectoral and down his arm, a dragon with a human-esque face grinned through the red smoke, wrapping its body all the way down to his forearm.

Hanzo flipped the letter over, tearing off the crest with his thumb, and opened the folded white parchment. The demon sighed from boredom as he scanned the parchment.

As he read, Jesse’s eyes darted wildly about the room, trying to find some miraculous way of escape. Think, think, think, think. He tried to slow his breathing, taking slow and methodical mouthfuls of air. In through the nose, out through the moth, a mantra he repeated to himself. Finally, his eyes settled on his lap, where his prosthetic hand lay limply on his thigh. He stared down at the metal, then looked over at where his gun was sticking out of his holster. If he could only move just an inch more he could—

“As stated in this contract and according to the curse,” Hanzo declared aloud, clear as crystal to his audience of one, and not looking at Jesse, but completely focused on the page, “Lord Wilhelm Reinhardt of Adlersbrun has offered you Jesse McCree as his annual sacrifice on the thirty-first of October, the anniversary of Adlersbrun’s Endless Night, as payment for his negligence during the battle and for my services.”

As soon as he was done, Hanzo fooled up the parchment and slid it back into the envelope.

While he was momentarily distracted, Jesse looked back down to his prosthetic, watching as the fingers budged. All down his right arm he could feel warmth returning, trickling with life. His heart raced, hope rising. His song’s wearing off. He tried to reach for his gun, hanging so tantalisingly close from his arm, but couldn’t find enough strength. _I need more time._

The demon pushed out his chair, ready to stand, but Jesse found his voice. “Wait!” he blurted, causing Hanzo to become still as a statue. His hands gripped the blackened arms, glaring at Jesse, clearly losing patience. Now that he had his attention, Jesse started to stutter. _Quickly, McCree. Say something._ “D-don’t you think a man deserves a bit of closure before he dies? You said you were one of the ones fightin’ during the Endless Night – why do I gotta croak now for something that happened forty-odd years ago?”

For a beat, Jesse believed his plan to have failed. The demon did nothing at first, then settled back into his seat. “Thirty-seven, to be exact,” Hanzo murmured. “Do you know the story?”

“Yeah, course I do,” Jesse said.

“Tell me the version you know.”

Jesse blinked, still unsure as to how this all related to him. “Why?”

“I promise, you will understand once you begin.”

The way he spoke was calm, as though this were suddenly a philosophical debate over why people dreamed while sleeping, and decisively not like Jesse was going to be murdered for crimes he had no way apart in.

“Given the recent history,” Jesse said, “Excuse me for not exactly trustin’ you.”

“I am many things,” the demon lifted his finger once more, tracing a cross over the head of his dragon tattoo. As he did, Jesse could swear he saw it shift underneath Hanzo’s touch. “But I am a man of my word, as I told you. A demon cannot break the oath or contracts he makes.”

Initially drawn to argue more, Jesse decided to shake it off. _Whatever it is_ , he thought, looking down at his arm. It was well hidden beneath the table, so it was out of Hanzo’s eyesight. With each passing second, his arm came back to life, the numbness dying off. _It’ll give me enough time._

He cleared his throat, repeating almost word for word the story his mother would tell. “Only four they were to defend the castle against Dr. Junkenstein and his minions. A nameless Soldier, veteran of countless battles; a reclusive Alchemist, skilled in the healing arts; a wandering Gunslinger, seeking adventure; and an Archer from the east, trying to escape his past. Dr. Junkenstein laughed upon seeing his minions rise from the ground, for that was the night of his revenge. As they rose a dark presence coalesced in the cold mist, and the Reaper appeared along with the first wave. It was the Soldier who slayed him, hoping that it would be for the last time.

The battle raged on, and as it did Dr. Junkenstein himself made a grand appearance, a twisted abomination of inhuman strength and wickedness guarding him. With a shot from his revolver, the Gunslinger dropped the monster, while the Alchemist struck Junkenstein. The two fell to the ground, the monster with an earth-shaking thud.”

Still, Hanzo did not stir. Jesse wasn’t even sure if he was still listening, his eyes unfocused and staring off into the distance as he spoke, however continued as his hand drew closer to his holster. “For the briefest of moments, the relentless pace of the advance slowed. But the worst was yet to come. The air became charged with the arcane. Birthed from the battle’s fire came a new advisory, the Summoner. Along with her, the Reaper reappeared, his returning him from death to rejoin the battle. The Gunslinger was as good as his reputation, and he found his marks and the Summoner was sent back to the flames.”

His breath hitched, his metal fingers brushing along the grip of his gun. The demon tilted his head to the side, like a bird. Obviously suspicious as to why he had stopped, prompting Jesse to quickly spit out, “A-along with her the Reaper fell, the enchanted pumpkin where his head ought to have been smashed against the flagstones. The Gunslinger, now flooded with arrogance of his own skill, claimed the battle to be over. The heroes had held the doors long enough for the townsmen and women to flee to safety, and through the oaken doors Lord Reinhardt thanked them for their services, promising to open the doors. The night was quiet, and the castle was safe.” Jesse’s mouth became dry, knowing exactly what was to come next. Undoubtedly Hanzo knew too. “I-I still don’t get how this—”

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. No longer was his voice as ethereal as before. Instead it was low, dangerous, causing Jesse’s chest to rumble. “Keep going.”

“You said I’d understand when I started.”

“And you will. Keep going.”

McCree wanted to shift in his seat, feeling the pins and needles pinch his very bones, but he restrained himself. I’m nearly there. Just keep him occupied. “But that was not the last of Junkenstein’s allies. Unbeknownst to them, one still remained. As the doors swung open, the Witch of the Wilds soared above the heroes. Yelling out one magic incantation, the Witch brought Junkenstein and his creations back to life, ambushing the heroes.”

Jesse suddenly swallowed, the pieces finally starting to fall into place, just as he had promised him they would. Their conversation replayed in his mind as he spoke, “Reinhardt closed the doors, trapping the heroes outside...”

_“...as payment for his negligence during the battle…”_

“The Gunslinger raised his revolver to the Witch…”

_“I’ve met one of your kind before…”_

“And…”

Jesse trailed off, eyes wide.

For a moment, silence. Not even the wind dared to utter a word before the demon allowed it. Then, “And so the Gunslinger’s luck had run out. Out of rage for the fallen hero, the archer summoned two serpents with a cry, destroying the Witch and the rest of the army once and for all. No remains were found, not even dust. With the battle won, Lord Reinhardt reopened his doors to find the heroes had disappeared without a trace,” Hanzo finished.

His fingers continued to tick, edging around the handle of his while Hanzo rose from his chair.

The demon turned his back to Jesse, reaching out into the open with a hand. Just like his dream, it was as though he bent reality back like a curtain, unveiling complete darkness behind it. A darkness he was sure was going to lead him straight to hell.

“I dragged the Gunslinger to my realm to try and ease his pain, and finish off the job the Witch had started.” Hanzo’s shoulders seemed to sag, bearing a weight Jesse couldn’t see. He didn’t dare show his face to him. “I had promised him before the battle that I would live as he did — as a human. And he had promised me that if we fulfilled Lord Reinhart’s plea, we would have been wealthy enough to live on our own. No more hunting, no more running. Just the two of us.” His tone changed, seeping with venom as he spat out, “But _his_ carelessness ruined that chance. I was blinded by fury and grief, so I returned to the castle that day, placing a curse onto Reinhardt — he was to offer blood on the anniversary of that battle or else I’d erase Aldersbrun from the map. I believed that the lord would be honourable and offer himself, but I was woefully mistaken.

Each year, without fail, I would return to find him submitting a sacrifice because that sick, disgusting creature would be too afraid to die. Typically sitting where you would be, in this mansion, blabbering on about a ghost setting something ablaze. They’d have something of his on their person so I would be lead straight to them – money, clothes, gifts, what have you. And as it does hold to the curse, I have no other choice but to carry on. So I’d entertain them with a card game, try to make their last hour as comfortable as I can, while he’d be off in another country enjoying his own gluttony. But if he makes one mistake – _just one_ – I will know, and I will make him suffer as long and as painfully as my love did.”

Jesse was about to ask why he couldn’t just break the contract and be rid of Reinhardt on his own accord, but as he was he noticed the dragon around his arm shift. Its tail wrapped itself around his wrist, and its muscles seemed to tighten, a boa-constrictor. _A demon cannot break the oath or contracts he makes,_ he reminded himself.

Finally Hanzo looked over his shoulder, and Jesse saw tears streak down his cheeks. Brick by brick the demon’s walls were cracking just like skin had done. Either from wrath or grief, he did not know, but Jesse watched mouth agape as his stoic demeanour all but vanished. “You mentioned that humans can be more unpredictable than the paranormal, but sometimes you need to place trust in them. I placed mine onto the wrong man many years ago, and now so have you. And for that I am deeply sorry.”

For a moment, Jesse did nothing but gaze upon Hanzo as he pulled the curtain of reality back further. The shadows behind it seemed to move, as though alive.

Then, light began to filter into the room, and the shadows flinched back in fear – a place white glow, that of the full moon. Along with Hanzo, Jesse quickly looked to the side, watching the clouds part ever so slightly as the eye of the storm passed over Loftus Hall.

_It’s high moon._

A hush fell upon the two men as Jesse closed his eyes and mouth, letting out a long breath through his nose, the demon’s face still clear in his mind. In the shadows of his psyche he saw Hanzo’s colourless stare, anguish etched deeply into his features. All around him he felt time slow down; the pitter-patter of rain against glass faded out, the thunder or winds now non-existent. When he reopened his right eye, the world was tinted in grey. No other dye to be seen. And that very same eye began to glow a hellish red. _A deadeye._

He watched as Hanzo tried to whirl around but time betrayed the demon – he moved slowly, as if trapped in water, helpless as Jesse raised his hand. The muzzle of his gun trained onto Hanzo’s exposed side.

“As am I,” Jesse said, pulling the trigger.

As soon as the bullet made contact with his side, time carried on its merry way. The room was flooded with colour once more as Hanzo let out a bloodcurdling scream, hunching over as he gripped onto his side. The curtain fell back in place, shutting the shadows from the human realm as the demon thrashed in pain. The rain once again began to pelt against the window, and the moon’s light dimmed until darkness returned.

Jesse didn’t hesitate or even gaze upon the damage he had done. Instead he kicked his chair back, the legs scraping across the wood, and bolted to the door. He ripped it back open and raced down the corridor, not daring to stop as he heard Hanzo’s inhuman shrieks calling him back.

Beside him as he ran the great oil paintings that lined the hallway caught flame – their golden frames spitting out blue embers as he passed, consuming the men and women featured in the artwork. Their bored faces were eaten away by fire – the glowing cerulean leaped and twirled as Jesse held up his prosthetic to shield his face, gun still in his hand. Heat filled the hall, the flames fuelled with fury. The refused to be contained, to happily die out along with the paintings; they fell to the wooden floor, beginning their feast their too. It roared and crackled behind him as they devoured everything in their path, like a starved animal that had been unleashed. Uncaring and thoughtless.

Jesse continued to run, legs pumping as he saw the hallway bringing him to the landing where the stairs pooled out onto the main hall. He skated around the corner, racing down the steps two at a time. The fire continued to pursue him like the feral dog it was – he felt them lick at his heels as he scampered down. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the handrails turn sapphire either side of him. Sweat now coated his dark skin, making his shirt and vest stick to his body.  

Once he reached the bottom his shoes clattered onto the tiles with all the grace of a sack of stones. The sinew and bones of his ankles cried out, as did his still mostly-frozen thighs. His rasping throat became parched as his head turned wildly, searching for an escape. By this point Jesse’s mind was vacant of any form of plan – all he knew was that he had to escape if he wanted to live, and do it as fast as he could. The crackle of flames behind him was undeniable, but still he did not look back. A silvery haze was beginning to form in front of him, the air becoming thick and heavy. He let out a rattling cough, watching the smoke seek an escape just like he did.

He looked onwards at the door in front of him at the great wooden doors that Lord Reinhardt had brought him through days before. Instinctively he lurched forward, feet scrambling as he darted towards it. Jesse’s boots echoed as he ran, now mere feet away from freedom.

His heart soared, thoughts of unbridled joy swirling in his mind. _I’m gonna make it! Holy shit I’m gonna make it!_

A screech from behind made his dreams come crashing down.

It was as loud and as all-consuming as the thunder outside, cracking the air like a whip. As if the very heavens were about to split apart – and in a way, it was. All around him glass burst inwards, their glistening shards cascading towards him. Jesse felt many of them cut across his arms and torso, shredding through his shirt and vest, leaving blood and searing aches in their wake. The violent unforgiving wind raced through the main hall, and he lost his breath to the wind as a torrent of rain began to pour inside attacking him just as the glass had done. He fought to keep his balance while running, but kept his eyes forever trained on the door.

The mansion let out a low groan, now losing the war that had been waged.

Suddenly, the grand chandelier he had admired upon arriving to Loftus creaked, then was unceremoniously dropped from the ceiling, crashing in front of him in an explosion of metal and crystal and wax.

Jesse skated to a stop just in time, leaning backwards on his heels so heavily he lost his stability. He was helpless to stop himself as he crashed to the floor, letting out a cry as he felt sharp glass stab into him. A dull throb spreads between his shoulders and all along down his back, lazy type of torture. More thunder rolled across the malevolent sky outside. The untamed power reverberated and echoed across the hall, ringing in his ears. By this point the thunder acted like a banshee’s scream, warning him of imminent death.

 _Keep fucking going,_ he told himself, gritting his teeth as he rolled onto his side. More glass poked the palms of his hands and his knees as he tried to stand. Slick blood coated his hands, hot and sticky between his fingers. The floor was littered with the widows’ remains, dust and broken shards glimmering under the light of flames. The pain was now a fiery burst that pulsated around his body, intensifying as he brought one knee up. Each movement was jarring, brutal.

His consciousness waned. Even his own thoughts sounding meek; _Please don’t stop now. Keep going. Please, gods, get the hell up and run._

Upon hearing the breaking of glass underfoot and the soft clopping of hooves against tile, Jesse looked up.

Blue fire acted as the demon’s backdrop, glass littering the floor beneath where he stood. No longer was his ribbon keeping his hair back – it flowed freely in the howling gale, appearing like wisps of smoke as he edged towards him. Slowly, elegantly. As though the world wasn’t trying to destroy itself all around them. His face was expressionless, the trail of tears still visible down his face.

Whatever Jesse’s gun had inflicted was no more. No hole, no blood, not so much as a mark. Hanzo’s grey skin was still devoid of any blemishes whatsoever. Pathetically he raised his hand once more, cocking his gun to him. He desperately pulled the trigger of his empty gun, no longer able to feel the power of the moon surge in his veins. He didn’t even try to resist when Hanzo raised a finger nonchalantly and flicked the air, causing the gun to shoot out of his grip. It scattered across the floor just like the card had done, far away from his reach.

“I have only ever seen such a gift used by one other person,” Hanzo asked as he approached, voice monotone. “Who gave it to you?”

To answer his question, Jesse spat near his feet in one last act of rebellion. The spittle was red, blending with the pool of blood. “Fuck… you…” he managed to wheeze out, lungs burning inside of him with smoke. Between inhaling the fumes and the blood thick in his throat, he let out a weak coughing fit. His eyes began to betray him, wanting nothing but to close and slip away elsewhere. Even supported on all fours, he felt his limbs quake beneath him.

_I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die._

He battled to stay awake as Hanzo bent down to his haunches, his eyebrows furrowed in.... some emotion Jesse didn’t have the strength to recognise. Jesse tried to rise, but to no avail. His body tipped to the side, caught last-minute by strong arms before he could fall back onto the blood-stained glass.

Jesse lay limply in the demon’s arms, feeling Hanzo pulling him close to his body. With no way to battle against him, Jesse let out a feeble sigh and melted into the hold. His sight began to blur, and as it did he felt Hanzo press something against his forehead. He tried to focus his vision to see what it was, but Hanzo was nothing more than a dark figure. Whatever he was doing felt… nice. For a second the storm was no more, nor was his pain or fear. A sense of security washed over him like a mother placing a blanket over her tired child.

“ _Good hunter, good hunter._ ” His voice was almost music to the ear; filled with grace, powerful without the need to shout. Yet just underneath it was the haunting feeling that his calm hid just underneath a sort of rage and pain that would never fully heal.  It was beautiful, and Jesse wished for it to never stop. “ _Rest your weary head. There will be no pain, no pain at all, while your fate resolves. For I am here with you, good hunter, and know I’ll never let you go_.”

That was the very last thing Jesse heard as the black mists swirled around the edges of his mind, succumbing to sweet oblivion.

 

xXx

 

_“So,” he drawled, looking at his lover from the other side of the bed. Hanzo’s new human form suited him well; at first it took a while for him to grow used to seeing his love look so… normal, but he adapted quickly to the change. As one does. He turned onto his side, prompting up his head with his hand. “How exactly does this Deadeye spell work?”_

_Hanzo was leaning against the bed’s backboard, mind having wandered off someplace he could not follow. But his question brought Hanzo back to him, causing him to glance over with those gorgeous, dark eyes, and he watched them crinkle as Hanzo smiled. “When the moon is nigh, you’ll be able to draw from it, just as I draw power from my realm,” Hanzo said. “When you activate it, time will serve you. Your enemies will slow down while you do not, enhancing your aiming and speed capabilities. It’s extremely powerful, and I thought it useful for the mission ahead.”_

_“Damn straight it’s useful. Dr. Junkenstein won’t know what hit him when I come along.”_

_“Don’t be so cocky.” Hanzo playfully jabbing a finger at his chest. “It’s an ability that takes seconds to use, yet takes days for it to recharge. So only use it for emergencies.”_

_“I get it, I get it.” He sat up, the sheets falling away from his body as he turned to Hanzo, leaning in close. “You worry too much,” he breathed, pressing his lips lightly against the crook of his neck._

_Hanzo moaned gently as he continued to work along, brushing up his neck and across his cheek. “My worrying gave you this gift in the first place,” Hanzo purred as he slowly made his way to Jesse’s lips. “So maybe it has some perks.”_

_Jesse stopped decorating Hanzo with kisses for just a moment and pulled himself onto Hanzo’s lap, leaning in to rest his forehead against his and closing his eyes._

_“Remember,” he said, in a barely-audible whisper. “This is the last job. Once we help Lord Reinhardt, we don’t need to do this anymore. We won’t ever need to use Deadeye again. We’ll be set for life.”_

_Hanzo nodded and Jesse pulled him in for a kiss, deepening it further and further until they couldn’t contain themselves. His hands roamed Hanzo’s body as he felt his love wrap his arms around his neck, lying back on the bed as they explored each other. The air was alive with electricity. Jesse smelled roses on Hanzo’s sallow skin and inky dark hair, and together their breathing came more erratic and feverish._

_As their limbs became interwoven and the two slipped away into bliss, the world fell apart. Pure white enveloped them whole until the scene no longer existed._

_And once more he found himself in the blank space._ _A thought raced in his head;_ who am I…? _He looked down at his hands,  watching the right one's flesh melt away to show his prosthetic underneath. He flexed it, hearing his fingers creek._ Jesse. I'm Jesse McCree. Born on the Endless Night thirty-seven years ago, the same night the Gunslinger died with the gift of Deadeye.

_He stood for a moment, blinking back in shock as soon as he looked up from his prosthetic. For unlike the last time he was not alone._

_Before him on the ground lay Hanzo, quaking as he had done in the first dream. Grey skin slicked with sweat, breathing coming in shallow gasps. His goat legs twitched, kicking out, hands trying to grab at something by his throat. A sick gurgling sound emanated from the demon, a sound that made his stomach sink. Another figure sat beside him, holding his head on his lap. He was of similar build to Hanzo, except entirely wrapped in grey armour, a hood over his head and a scarf wrapped around his neck. His horns were crimson, and weren’t as long nor as curled as Hanzo’s. A white mask set in a devilish smile was placed over his face, red eyes staring down at him, speaking quietly to Hanzo in a language he did not understand._

_Despite all of his instincts begging him not to, he stepped forward, peering closer. The demon’s tattoo had grown larger. Its red serpentine body was now wrapped not only all over his arm, but circled around his torso. The dragon’s laughing face was now around his neck, as if choking the life out of him. Smirking all the while._

_As Jesse approached Hanzo turned his head, panting out, “You… Reinhardt… before… the curse destroys… Adlersbrun … it is the only way…”_

_His voice trailed off as the dragon pulled tighter, forcing him to be silent._

_The other demon looked to Jesse, red eyes staring blankly, as if asking him what to do, as helpless as he was in that moment._

_“If a sacrifice is not met as per the curse, then the town is destroyed,” he said. His voice was much softer than Hanzo’s. Lighter. “It is why this fool has not broken it long ago and put an end to his miserable life sooner.” He shook his head, muttering to himself, “Stupidly sentimental.”_

_Though the demon’s words were harsh, Jesse had a feeling they weren’t true. Only trying to cover concern with insults. Much like a stubborn younger brother would._

_Jesse bent down to his knees, looking at Hanzo. “Why not kill me when you had the chance?”_

_It took a second, but Hanzo managed a sharp breath. He raised his hand and laid his palm on Jesse’s cheek. Hanzo’s touch was cold on his skin, but he leaned into it, trying to believe that this was all just a dream. That Hanzo wasn’t real, nor was the curse, nor was the story of what happened to the Gunslinger. That in reality, he was just asleep in the chair back in Loftus, as no one else but Jesse McCree, and that he had lived one life and not another. That this was all a coincidence and not true. He lifted his prosthetic to hold Hanzo’s hand in place, helping it stay there._

_“I lost you once… I refuse… to lose you… again…” Hanzo croaked out. He lifted up his other hand, trembling as the dragon squeezed, and snapped his fingers—_

 

xXx

 

The chime of the grandfather clock roused Jesse McCree from his slumber.

He let out a sharp gasp as he jolted forward in his chair, panting as the bells rang nine times to announce the hour of the day. Jesse’s mind raced for a moment, trying to gather himself. He looked down at his hands, noticing a lit cigar hanging between the fingers of his prosthetic. It was nothing more than a stub, the ash having pooled onto the floor, the embers long died out.

Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling, he began to slow down the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He brought the remnants of the cigar to the crystal ashtray he had taken, tossing it inside.

He looked to his left, gazing out the tall window beside him. The sun had risen over the horizon, its warm rays falling onto the dying gardens that surrounded the mansion to make it look less hellish than it actually was. In the distance he could make out a horse-drawn carriage make its way up the lane, undoubtedly the same one that had brought him there all those days ago.

Jesse leaned back into his soft, cushioned chair, eyes quickly shifting to the other side of the table. Opposite him was another chair. However, rather than being lovingly interwoven with red padding, this one was blackened and charred. Even the wood floor had dark scorch marks around the legs of the chair and mysteriously, these also appeared on the ceiling just above it.

The smell of smoke lingered on it, as if the chair had recently caught fire.

And if the lord of the mansion’s words were to be believed, that was exactly what—

_Wait._

He looked down onto the table. On the oaken surface sat a golden coin – one of the sixty in total Lord Reinhardt had given him as payment. The rest of his earnings hung snuggly off of his waist in a pouch, clinking against one another with the smallest of movements. He patted himself down – there was no blood, he felt perfectly healthy, his gun was still in its holster and his coat was still over his shoulders.

He looked around the room, searching for fire or any trace of mud on the floor. The rest of the study had no other signs that a fire had gone out of hand. The walls were lined with tall, broad, shelves filled with heavy leather tomes. All of them were coated in a layer of dust – a telling sign that they were used for nothing more than decoration – but all were in otherwise pristine condition. On one of the shelves sat a few burnt herbs he had used as incense the night prior, trying to lure the ghost with its scent but to no avail.

“What a weird fuckin’ dream,” he slurred to himself, standing up from the chair.

He lumbered over to the hallway, just to ensure himself. As he suspected, just like before, the paintings stared back at him, the men and women the art depicted safely enclosed in their golden frames. Jesse brought his hand to his face, practically feeling the dark circles that hung from his sockets. He probably looked like death warmed over.

Satisfied with his confirmation, he went back to the study to gather his things. He grabbed the sweetgrass and the coin off the table, shoving them away in their respective pockets and pouches, shaking his head and laughing to himself. He was amazed at how elaborate it all had been; the scheming, the curse, the demons, the tattoo, the cards… all of it seemed so _real_ . And Hanzo himself. _Being a demon aside, a guy looking like that could only be in my dreams._

Even though none of it was true, with a few tweaks it could become quite a tale to tell.

There was a knock on the door, and when McCree looked over his shoulder a hulking figure stood in the doorway. Reinhardt Junior leaned a shoulder on the frame, grinning widely.

“Is the mansion finally ghost-free, my new friend?” he asked, voice booming.

Jesse grinned back, tightening his pouch closed. “Well, it is now,” he said, tying it back around his belt. “I’ve done everything I could and more, nothing. Been dead quiet since y’all left.”

“Ah, yes. My father and I apologise. Between you and me, my father grows quite — how you should say — jumpy, around this time of year. This year, I’ve decided to spend more of my time with him, given…”

Jesse raised a hand. “Say no more. I get ya. I’d do the same if anyone in my family was that age.” He reached over to the ashtray, picking it up. “Hope ya don’t mind me having a smoke in here. Figured the place can’t stink any more than it does…”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the flicker of white. He glanced over at it. Junior’s words became distant and faraway, the room dissolving into nothing. A hollowness began to grow in his chest, and his hands began to ball into fists so tight, that the ashtray cracked in his prosthetic hand.

Lying on the ground, just beside his chair, was a card. The eight of hearts, with a boar’s head trapped in a circle of hearts.  

Jesse shoved passed Junior, barely hearing him cry out in surprise as he did, racing down the hall. The ashtray fell from his grip, crashing onto the floor. One word circled his mind like a mantra as he ran. _The curse, the curse, the curse._

He had no idea if he was too late and both Adlersbrun and Hanzo were gone, but still, he raced down the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. He stopped short at the bottom, for there was Lord Reinhardt himself, hobbling toward the stairs with a complacent smile on his aged countenance and his crown still perched on his skull.  

“I hope this McCree fellow hasn’t done a runner on us,” he called, a comment meant for Junior. His smile fell as Jesse came into full view, and his eyes went wide in horror. He instantly shook his head, stepping back. “I— no, you shouldn’t be—”

Upon seeing him, a new wave of memories and emotions that weren't his own came over Jesse.

_Seeing Reinhardt as a younger man, looking in horror in between two doors, a hand reaching out and crying for him to help. Some way off he could hear Hanzo screaming; “We cannot beat them on our own!” Only for the Witch’s shrill laughter be his reply._

_Sulfur filled the air, and all around fire blossomed on the stone bridge. Monsters waded through the murky lake, clamouring for the heroes._

_An older woman with dark skin and an array of potions jangling in her belt_ — _the Alchemist_ — _was running towards the door, trying to stop him. But by the time she reached them, they slammed into her face with a final clang ._

He blinked, the memory vanishing from sight, but the rage… the rage remained. He felt it boil in his gut, his fingers biting into his palms.

Jesse untied the pouch of gold hanging from his belt, approaching the lord with a false smile.

“The ghost never showed up, _my liege_ ,” he said, hissing out the last two words as he came forward, grabbing one of his wrists. He placed the pouch in his open palm and shoved his hand back toward him. His eyes narrowed, closing the gap between them. “But don't worry. As my duties as a hunter, I must rid the world of monsters. Just like _you_.”

Lord Reinhardt continued to shake his head, shoving Jesse’s hand away. The pouch fell to the ground, coins spilling onto the floor as he turned his back on him. He limped as fast as he could down the hall, still trying to escape the fate he had sealed for himself long ago.

No matter how much he tried, the once-great lord’s time had finally come for him. A song began to echo throughout the hall, familiar to them both.

_“My lord, my lord, how happy I am to see you come into my arms.”_

Reinhardt slowed his pace, looking wildly about, to try to find the source of the voice. Little did he know.

The air behind Jesse shimmered and darkness began to seep through. He glanced over his shoulder to witness an armoured figure emerged from the shadows, it's toothy smile wide in greeting. Using the other demon’s shoulder as a crutch was Hanzo, pale eyes almost black as the tattoo continued to squeeze his neck tight.

Coming onto the balcony, Junior let out a cry as he raced down to meet them, only to be stopped by the other demon’s palm. He held up his hand, freezing Junior mid-run down the stairs. As loudly as he could, he said, “As stated in the contract and in accordance of the curse, Lord Wilhelm Reinhardt of Adlersbrun has offered himself as his annual sacrifice on the thirty-first of October, the anniversary of Adlersbrun’s Endless Night, as payment for his negligence during the battle and for my brother's services. And also for the deaths of thirty six souls he's offered in his stead.”

He then looked to Hanzo, saying, “This is your chance. Make it count.”

Nodding feebly, Hanzo stammered away from his brother. He stood hunched by the stairs, looking over at McCree. As he did, Jesse watched in horror as the tattoo on his skin began to slither higher, rippling just beneath the surface, and the dragon's face now on Hanzo's.

He turned his attentions back on the fleeing Reinhardt, pulling up an arm. In a bright flash a bow appeared, and as he lined up and drew back the string, all down his right arm began to crackle with white and blue electricity, bolts forming an arrow that sat comfortably in the notch. His muscles tightened, pulling the arrow back.

He opened his mouth, and as he did the tattoo was beginning to quickly retract from his face and neck, allowing him to scream out; “ _Ryū ga waga teki wo kurau!_ ”

As he let the arrow fly, two spiraling dragons took form, their blue mouths agape as they roared towards Reinhardt.

Wind blew across the room, sending McCree’s hat tumbling off and his hair wiping wildly in front of his face. He watched between fingers as the dragon's caught both of Reinhardt’s legs before he reached the door. He was violently pulled to the ground, his skull smacking off of the tiles.

Out of the corner of his vision he saw Hanzo fall backwards into the darkness, his brother quickly following suit. Junior was unfrozen in place, and grabbed onto the railing to keep himself straight, watching the events unfold helplessly before him as Jesse did.

In a blink the dragon's recoiled along with their master, their new prize scraping his nails in a futile effort to escape. Without a sound, not even a last, rattled gasp as he slid passed Jesse and disappeared into the black. The crown slid off of his head as he was pulled within, clattering to the floor to join the coins.

The air shimmered one last time, and all was well again. The only sign that Lord Wilhelm Reinhardt the Third had ever existed was the crown he had left behind.

 

xXx

 

All along the harbor, boats creaked while waves swayed them gently. Jesse soaked in the salty breeze, practically feeling it on his tongue as he gazed out on the royal blue of the sea. The sun illuminated the water, brilliant white over turquoise, beauty beyond measure. Every passer-by was undeniably a person, fully human, as capable of laughter and joy as he. Yet somehow all of them were distracted, hurrying to-and-fro, eyes cast down or ahead of them, as if they had been transported into paradise but hadn’t taken time to notice.

A few days ago, Jesse was just like them. For all his travels, he didn’t spend any significant amount of time on beaches or anywhere near the ocean. He had never seen the point before. But after the events of Lord Reinhardt’s disappearance, he had spent more and more of his day by the cliffside port.

The ocean brought life to the town surrounding Loftus Hall. It gifted them food, movement, and a place to rest their eyes away from the bustle of their lives. It was a place where the clouds roamed freely above, the view unhindered by the rising of hills. Among the clouds, the gulls owned the skies. Jesse watched their wings beat against the currents as they approached the fishing fleet yonder, hours into their haul even though dawn was still only young. Naturally, the fishermen tried to wave them away, though truth be told, they probably loved them too.

What is the sea without the cry of the gulls? The air would be empty and their ears grieving for that most wonderful of terrible music.

“Dear lord,” he sighed. “Who’da thought a near-death experience would make me into a pretentious asshole.”

He pushed himself away from the banister he was leaning on, walking further down the docks. He fought the urge to look up at the cliffs, to spot the black structure of the mansion. While Junior had taken the story of what his father had done to McCree in his past life (and what he tried to do for this one) remarkably well, Jesse hadn’t the courage to take his offer to sleep in the mansion. Instead, he took to a local inn while he recovered from the dreaded night.

Ever since that morning, he had not heard a whisper from Hanzo, nor seen hide nor tail of him anywhere. Part of him thought it was for the better, but another… another wanted reassurance that he was well. That the curse really had been lifted, and that he was no longer being strangled by it.

He wanted answers to questions that had been stirring within him for days about who he really was, but he was equally terrified by what those answers might be.

He kicked a stone in his path, watching it tumble off the edge of the dock and fall into the water with a clear plop.

“You seem troubled.”

The lightly accented voice came from his left, undoubtedly feminine. Jesse perked up, looking over to see that a woman beside him, looking out amongst the sea as he had done. She was as slender as a stick, with bright red hair cropped neatly short, blowing in the wind. Unlike many of the other ladies in the area who he only saw wearing shawls or dresses, she wore a dark suit. Her features were as sharp as a knife. A pronounced jaw and high cheekbones, long nose and pointed chin. Her eyes were of different shades. One brown as the bark of a tree and the other as blue as the water before them.

Her thin lips curled into a wicked smile. “A lot must be on your mind if you’re here.”

Jesse paused, squinting. “I might say the same for you.”

“Oh, defensive, are we? You have every right, I suppose, given what’s happened.”

She talked in riddles, around in circles. Jesse didn’t like it. He had enough shit to sort through and he wasn’t adding her to the list. He squared his shoulders, crossing his arms.

“Do I know you?” he said, tone flat.

She continued to smile, one that was more knowing. “No, but we’re more alike than you might think.” She raised her right hand — long and as edged as the rest of her, purple veins visible beneath her almost transparently pale skin — and pointed a finger to one of the boats. “If you yearn to know the truth, go over there and seek it.”

The boat she gestured to was an old timer, from what he could see. A veteran of the brine. The old planks retained the odour of the fish even after a storm. Yet she was sound, seaworthy enough to take to the waters at dawn with nets bundled onto the deck. People filtered off of her back, using her as a cheap ferry up and down the coastline. One of these people was a man with long, black hair tied back with a golden ribbon, and sharp brown eyes.

He appeared to be searching for someone amongst the small crowd. Another man stepped down from the boat, looking quite similar to the first. Familial. His face was clean, much younger than the other, and he wore his short hair slicked back. He patted his companion’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear before following the rest of the crowd off of the dock. The first man stayed where he was, scanning the surrounding area.

Jesse felt his heart stumble at the sight. He opened his mouth to demand some sort of explanation from the strange woman, only to find that she had vanished into thin air. Left to himself, Jesse looked back at the man on the dock, waiting to catch his eye. Their eyes met.

The two men gazed at one another across the sea, until at last, Hanzo’s lips curled into a smile. One that was genuine, and filled with love.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is largely based off of the Legend of Loftus Hall and loosely off of the story Yurei the Blind Musician. One of which is very local and very personal to me -- Loftus is only a stone's throw away from where I live and I've had the pleasure of working there a few years ago for work experience as a tour guide. Links to both stories below! I really hope this fic pushes more people to read up about them, as they are marvellous reads. And, of course, this story is set in the world of Junkenstein's Revenge (set years and years after those events). Hanzo’s description is based off of his demon!skin except... you know... he actually looks like one. And Moira has a cameo due to her Irish roots, and as soon as she was revealed I knew I HAD to honour her arrival.
> 
> Don't worry, "Masks" shall be updating very soon with an extremely long chapter! ;) School is really slowing down my work process, which was already slow to begin with since admittedly I'm too much of a perfectionist. Nevertheless, thank you all for your great patience and thank you for reading! Never be afraid to drop a comment or visit me over on my Tumblr; http://thetallirishflower.tumblr.com. Also, let me know of any tags I may have forgotten to use.
> 
> https://www.independent.ie/regionals/newrossstandard/news/the-legend-of-loftus-hall-29301690.html  
> https://hyakumonogatari.com/2013/10/15/goze-no-yurei-the-yurei-of-the-blind-female-musician/


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